CHAPTER TEN #6
After that, our parents knew that they couldn't stop us from sneaking in and out of each other's bedroom, so they did the next best thing: built a literal bridge. A wooden plank with railing and cables, suspended between our balconies like we were in some suburban version of Romeo and Juliet.
Only less romance, more splinters. But hey—it's sturdy. It's still there.
And Zach still uses it like it's his personal sidewalk into my life.
Case in point: I push up on my elbows, turn my head, and there he is.
Cheeky, annoying, heart-melting grin.
In one hand? A can of whipped cream. In the other? Two pints of Giuseppe's Italian ice.
I almost squeal. Almost launch off the bed and hug him until my lungs pop. But then I remember. Oh, right. I'm mad at him. Sort of.
Tell that to my traitor heart, which is cartwheeling like it just got a shot of adrenaline straight to the vein. Ugh. I can never stay mad at him for long. Weak. Pathetic, my inner sass-monster groans, rolling its eyes.
Still, I commit to the bit. Fake frown locked in place, even though my mouth won't stop twitching like it's seconds from betraying me.
And Zach notices. Of course he notices.
Now he's smirking. That wicked, knowing smirk that says, Yeah, Sugarplum, I see you cracking.
Kill me now.
He steps fully inside, holding up the loot.
"Special delivery. Two pints of Giuseppe's and an unhealthy amount of whipped cream."
Then he flashes that grin—the one that makes entire crowds lose their minds—and adds, "Also... called it. I knew you were still awake."
Shut up, Westbrook, my inner sass-monster hisses. You don't get points for knowing me too well. That's literally your whole job as my best friend.
I roll onto my back, arms crossed, forcing my face into something neutral. "Wow. Congrats on your psychic abilities. Want a medal?"
His smirk deepens, like my fake attitude is just feeding him.
And me? I want to scream. Or laugh. Or jump him. Honestly, all three at once.
Without missing a beat, Zach plops down on my bed like he owns it, making the mattress bounce. Which, honestly, he kind of does—he's slept here so many times it's basically his second bed. Not that I'm complaining.
He unloads his loot with dramatic flair. Out comes pint #1, pint #2, and the grand finale: the can of whipped cream. My favorite.
He shoves the pistachio one into my hands, lid already popped, plastic spoon stuck inside like it's a done deal.
"Bribing me now, Westbrook?" I arch a brow, arms still crossed.
He gasps like I've mortally offended him. "Bribing? No, no, no. This is called tradition management." His grin goes cheeky. "Technically, this way, we didn't skip Giuseppe's after the game. Loop-hole."
I narrow my eyes. "Mm. Sounds suspiciously like bribery."
He holds both hands up in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. Call it what you want. Let's say... peace offering."
I snort. "Peace offering, huh? And what crime are you begging pardon for?"
Zach tilts his head, lips pushing into the most ridiculous pout, eyes wide like some sad golden retriever who just got told 'no' at Petco. "Oh, come on, Sugarplum. You're mad at me. I can feel it. And you know I can't survive when you're mad at me."
Ugh. He knows exactly what he's doing. The stupid pout. The stupid puppy eyes. My kryptonite.
I shrug, feigning total disinterest. "Don't know what you're talking about."
Inside, my inner sass-monster is screaming: Lie! Lie! You're folding like origami and he knows it.
And the worst part? That smug little grin creeping back onto his face tells me he definitely does.
Zach smirks, scooping a big spoonful of pistachio ice and piling it high with whipped cream. "Fine. If you won't admit you forgive me, I'll just have to force it out of you."
I eye him suspiciously. "Force it how? What, you gonna bribe me with dairy products again?"
"Better." His grin goes full wicked. "Tickle torture."
My eyes widen. "You wouldn't dare."
"Oh, Sugarplum." His voice drops to that playful, mock-serious tone. "You know I would."
And then he pounces.
"Zach!" I squeal as his fingers find my sides first, and I nearly fling the Italian ice across the room.
He laughs—loud, unstoppable—while I kick and twist, trying to keep the pint upright. "Stop! You're gonna make me spill—ahhh! Zach!"
But he doesn't stop. He knows every spot, every single place I'm ticklish—because of course he does. Behind my knees, my neck, the small of my back—no mercy. I'm laughing so hard my stomach hurts, tears squeezing out of my eyes.
"I—hate—you—Westbrook!" I gasp between hysterical shrieks, clamping the ice against my chest like it's my only child.
He just grins wider, relentless. "Say you forgive me, and I'll stop."
"Never!"
"Say it." His hands move faster, and I shriek again, almost kicking him off the bed.
I'm seconds from spilling pistachio and whipped cream all over the mattress when I finally break. "Fine! Fine! I forgive you!" I scream through breathless laughter.
He was grinning like a victorious maniac while I clutch the pint, wheezing and red-faced.
I glare weakly at him between gasps. "You're evil."
"Evil, but forgiven," he says smugly.
I'm still trying to catch my breath, clinging to the pint like it's my life support, when it hits me.
Zach is right there.
On top of me.
One arm braced on the mattress, the other still hovering dangerously close to my ribs, his face inches from mine. He's laughing, his silver eyes bright, hair falling over his forehead, lips parted—God, don't look at his lips, Caroline.
Too late.
My traitor brain goes full IMAX: Zach pinning me down, laughing with me, at me, whatever—it doesn't matter. Because from this angle, from this closeness, it doesn't look like best friends goofing around. It looks like something else.
Something way more...couple-y.
Like, if someone walked in right now, they wouldn't think Oh, cute besties messing around.
No. They'd think Yep, they're definitely making out in three, two, one—
My stomach does a full-on Cirque du Soleil flip. My cheeks are on fire.
Meanwhile, my brain is screaming: Careful, Sugarplum. One more second of this and you'll be writing your wedding vows.
I shove at his chest weakly, trying to sound casual even though my voice cracks. "Okay, okay, you win! Now get off me, you're heavy."
He chuckles, finally rolling off me and flopping onto his back, still smug as hell.
And me? I'm lying there, heartbeat in overdrive, ice cream melting in my hand, pretending I'm fine. Totally fine. Not at all imagining what it would feel like if he leaned down those extra two inches and—Stop!
A few songs later, we're back in rhythm. Taylor's blasting, the whipped cream can is half-dead, and both our pints are scraped clean. My stomach's full, my heart's lighter than it has any right to be.
I set my empty cup down beside his on the nightstand and let out a sigh. "This is why I don't lose weight. You keep shoving sweet stuff at me."
Zach leans back against my headboard, one arm tossed behind his head, smirking. "What can I say? You've got a sweet tooth. And this—" he gestures at the empty pint, "is literally the only thing that cures your sulking."
I shoot him a look. He grins wider.
"And for the record? You don't need to lose weight. You're gorgeous just the way you are."
My jaw drops. "Gorgeous? Hideous, you mean." I flop dramatically onto my back, pouting up at the ceiling. "Zach, look at me. I'm basically the size of a small elephant. Been like this since freshman year. No matter what I do, it doesn't change. And now I finally figured out why."
He chuckles, amused. "Oh yeah? Why?"
"Because you," I point at him accusingly, "keep feeding me. You're literally sabotaging me every time I try to eat like... lettuce or whatever." I grab the little bit of belly I've got, groaning. "See? Exhibit A."
He laughs, catching my hands and swatting them away. "Stop. You're being ridiculous."
"I'm serious!"
"And so am I." He shifts, turning toward me, his expression softening. "My job as your best friend is to spoil you. Feed you things you love. Make sure you're happy. And seriously, Caroline—you don't need to change a thing."
I roll my eyes, trying to fight off the heat creeping up my cheeks, but he's not letting me off the hook.
"I mean it. You've got curves half those girls at school would kill for." His grin tilts, teasing, but his eyes stay earnest. "You're healthy. Strong. And beautiful. The kind of beautiful that doesn't need fixing."
My throat tightens.
"You're perfect the way you are," he says firmly. Then, softer, like it's just for me: "Your body's perfect. You're perfect. And if you can't believe anyone else, at least believe me. I'm your best friend. And I would never lie to you about that."
His hand comes up, brushing against my cheek. The touch is so gentle I almost forget to breathe.
"Tell me you understand," he says quietly.
My heart pounds so hard it feels like it's echoing off the walls.
My eyes sting like I might cry, because how am I supposed to survive words like that coming from him?
I nod slowly. I can't trust my voice right now.
This is why I don't crack when people call me fat or ugly. Because Zach Westbrook makes me feel like I'm beautiful.
Not just beautiful. His beautiful.
See what I mean when I say he feeds my delusional tendencies? He says things like "you're perfect" and looks at me like I'm the only person in the galaxy, and then expects me to just... file that under best friend talk?
Best friend my ass.
No best friend tells you your body is perfect while brushing his hand against your cheek like that. No best friend makes you feel like you could combust on the spot from a single look.
And yet—here I am. Melting into his touch. Believing every word. Building entire love stories in my head off scraps of affection he probably doesn't even realize he's giving.
...God, I'm so screwed.